Page 11

At the airport, Ronja swiveled her head, walking cautiously to the ticket counter to check in for the flight.

The local time was 8:00 a.m. The unease scraped her chest as she homed in on every man behind a newspaper. Peter would stop at nothing to find me. She feigned interest in the various headlines written in Swedish—Student Revolution. War. Apartheid. Assassination—awaiting a glance at the strangers’ faces when they turned the pages.

She went to a café vendor where a stout gentleman was slumped alone, drinking a screwdriver. She lifted her sunglasses and held his glance for a moment, then ordered a croissant. “Actually, two please.” She made a show of digging into her purse. “Å nej,” she said softly, and with false panic, “Nej nej,” louder now, summoning fake tears. “I forgot my wallet, or it dropped out, no, no . . . ”

“Here, let me.” The gentleman reached inside his suit coat.

Ronja gasped and touched her forehead. “I’ll be fine, I need to retrace my steps.”

“It’s no bother, ma’am.” His chest inflated while opening his billfold. To the vendor, he said, “Give her whatever she wants.”

Ronja swiped a tear. “Tack snälla du!” She thanked him, adding an apple and banana to her order. She took a few hungry bites of the pastry, eyeing the pocket he slid his billfold into. She spread her arms at the stranger. “I must,” she insisted. “You’ve made this awful day bearable.” Upon the embrace, she grazed a hand over his rear and then was gone, dropping his wallet into her tote as she left.

Within the hour, she had six wallets—a total of eight hundred kronor—and thus far no Peter in sight. Anger boiled her stomach and throbbed her head. She had far less money than what she had planned to withdraw from the bank that morning.

Ronja waited behind a telephone booth to be the last passenger ascending the narrow steps of the Swedish Airline, scrutinizing every person that preceded. It was a massive plane under the glowing, noon sunshine. The stewardess, in her navy skirt and gold-buttoned blazer, greeted Ronja with shiny teeth and a robotic, “Welcome aboard.” She tipped her matching navy cap.

Ronja stepped inside the cabin and held her breath, completing another sweep of the occupants. He’s not here. She exhaled the anxiety. But when it came to Peter Johansson, Ronja wouldn’t be satisfied she’d outsmarted him until she was on American soil.

A mixture of fuel exhaust and strong coffee wafted about. The cushioned seats and carpet were matching rust colors, and the flowered curtains were drawn on the windows, leaving the cabin dim.

She settled into the window seat next to a gray-suited man. He fired a cigarette and offered one to Ronja. She scrunched her nose. “Nej tack,” she said, declining his offer.

“Swedish, eh?” he mumbled with the cigarette dangling on his lip. “Speak any English?”

Ronja played confused, hoping he had no interest in practicing Swedish for the next fifteen hours. The chipper stewardess sauntered by, offering pillows. Ronja held up her hand, accepted one, and lodged it against the window. She closed her eyes.

Her sleep was fitful. The jets roared, and the passengers jabbered. Clouds of cigarette smoke curled into her nostrils and reactivated her headache. Stewardesses inquired repeatedly about her comfort, offering alcohol, even lobster and foie gras, all of which nauseated her. Water was all she wanted.

When the pilots announced the descent into JFK International Airport, Ronja marveled at the scene below. Grids of light appeared through clouds. Glittering skyscrapers and spires reached to the plane. Bridges crisscrossed the black water. Dots of light—cars—appeared to be slow-moving, glowing ants, but grew larger and faster as the plane approached, hitting the concrete with a jolting lurch. The stewardess announced in Swedish, “Welcome to New York City, New York, the local time is one o’ five in the morning.”

The plane taxied, and the aircraft doors opened. Ronja tottered down the steps onto the tarmac. Wisps of gray clouds traveled across the hazy sky that blotted the stars. A light breeze perked up her gritty eyes.

She followed the throng of passengers into a crowded baggage claim hall with rows of conveyor belts next to customs officers. Voices echoed and bounced off the high rafters affixed with artificial lights. An American flag hung from glass-paneled windows. Behind them, people waved, seeking to grab the attention of loved ones hustling to clear customs. She had no luggage. And she had no loved ones. Ronja remembered the second set of airline tickets. The flight to Minneapolis was six hours away.

The customs routine was not new. Peter had taken her to London, to practice your English, min lilla fågel, he’d said, and they proceeded to blow all their money on luxury hotels, dinners, and jewelry she never wore. But that had been over a year ago. She reached inside the tote and wrapped her fingers around the Dalahäst. Her nerves crumbled at the thought of it being taken.

To calm herself, Ronja mouthed the words of a childhood prayer, Engel Kommen. It summoned the warmth and protection of her godmother, Melia, who raised Ronja in Germany, in the latter half of her childhood.

It was her turn. She removed her sunglasses. The customs officer peered under the visor of his cap and asked how she was feeling in English. She touched her clammy face. “I . . . feel good.”

He stared at her. “Your bags?” She gave him the tote. “Your other bags?” He motioned with his hand.

All she heard was “bags.” Ronja shook her head.

He frowned. “What was your business in . . . ” he looked at her ticket, “Stockholm?”

“Family.”

He grunted and continued his search, handling the Dalahäst with overt concentration. “Did you declare this?”

“What?” She shifted and squeezed her thighs. Her pulse thumped in her ears; it dulled the sounds echoing around her. “It, no . . . it is mine. My family.”

The officer squinted and held up the passport as if to examine the photograph. “Huh. When is your birthday?”

Beads of sweat trickled from her armpits. Yet looking him straight on, Ronja coolly recited the date she had painstakingly altered on the passport she’d stolen, having changed the 6 to an 8. “April 4th, 1928.”

“Hmpf, you don’t look a day over twenty. Lucky.” He placed the horse into the tote. “Looks like an heirloom. I won’t bother you if you have no more items.” His gaze flitted from the passport to Ronja, then back to the passport, as if looking for any sign of deviance or illness. Finally, he stamped his approval and waved her on. A deluge of relief nearly buckled her. She replaced her sunglasses.